Freedom Doesn’t Mean Everything is Perfect

By Susan Esther Barnes

When I think about Passover starting at the end of next week, I feel a bit broken, like the headset pictured above, which got into an altercation earlier this week with our cat, Thomas. Passover is one of my favorite holidays. I love the food and the celebration of freedom from slavery. I especially love matzo, which I associate with visits to my paternal grandmother when I was a child. I love the rituals of the seder plate and the four cups of wine.

I’ve always thought of Passover like the dandelion pictured below that I saw on a walk I took this afternoon: Delicate and short-lived, yet perfect.



But last year my father died just two days before the start of Passover. From now on, thoughts of Passover for me will always be connected with thoughts about his death. From now on, part of me will always feel a bit broken during this holiday.

It helped me to realize, though, that freedom is not about perfection. Just as the Israelites were afraid to enter the promised land after escaping from Egypt and had to wander in the desert for 40 years, just as the country of Israel represents freedom and self-determination for the Jewish people and yet has struggled for survival ever since, so too we remove 10 drops of wine from our cup at Passover to commemorate the 10 plagues and to acknowledge that our joy is lessened by the pain of others.

Freedom does not mean perfection. It does not mean unbridled joy. It does not mean all our problems are solved. Passover does not mean these things, either. And I’m okay with that.

The Silent Scream

By Susan Esther Barnes

Over the last year and a half, I have become a regular blogger. I write down whatever moves me, and post it for all to see. And over time, although not huge in number, my readership has grown in an encouraging way.

I did not realize how spoiled I was becoming. I have gotten used to being able to post about whatever moves me; about whatever I discover about myself and my world. This transparency, this not holding back of what is inside, has helped me to grow in confidence about myself and the inherent “okayness” of the person who is me.

It was a bit jarring, then, to discover in the last few weeks that this freedom I have been taking for granted is not as limitless as I had imagined. A couple of things have happened about which I cannot, in good conscience, post, since doing so would hurt other people.

I know I can write about these things, and then save what I write in a private place, or discard it, without risking the harm I wish to avoid. However, doing so still would not fulfill what I have become accustomed to, namely, not holding back in my blog, not covering up, not avoiding that which is hard to admit or discuss.

So despite the other options that may be available to me, what I am left with still feels a bit like a silent scream.